


i can't let go without dying first

by skinsprung



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hallucinations, No Beta read we die like men, Not Canon Compliant, and by men i mean fools because thats me, i am back on my write a decent fic until the ending and then fuck it up shit, i am once again mentioning that idk Shit about the lore, i just wanted to write phil and tommy fixing their relationship but that didnt even happen LMAO, phil being a bad/not so bad/bad dad, warning: i dont actually know the lore i simply made it all up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29392857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinsprung/pseuds/skinsprung
Summary: Phil sinks to the floor, his mind runs ragged and he’s shaking-- everything is shaking and everything is blurry and blackening in his vision and he doesn’t understand, his ears are bleeding his eardrums are blown out and Phil wonders in all the madness: Is this what Wilbur felt like?"You look really pathetic." Wilbur echoes, it's all Phil can hear.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	i can't let go without dying first

  
  


_I am stuffing your mouth with your promises_

_and watching you vomit them out upon my face_

_\- Anne sexton_

  
  
  


When Phil sleeps, his mistakes haunt him. 

Sleep hasn’t beckoned in a long time. Phil sits in the frosty cold, air chilling his lungs and snow melting under his boots. He’s kept awake staring blank eyed at the moon glittering over the white caps. Kept awake by the eyes of his sons boring holes- one a hollow and lifeless excitement, one an angry yet defeated blue. 

The muted growl of the mobs fade into the incessant chirping of crickets lurking in the foliage. The hills sing lullabies and the world is so remarkably still that Phil is tempted to let his eyes shut and his will rest- just for tonight. 

But he doesn’t allow it-- rather, he can’t. When Phil sleeps, his guard around the thoughts he doesn’t actually have and the feelings he can’t actually feel slips. And they emerge through the dark that comes with sleep, and their voices blend into a cacophonous racket that drums against his ears and they say: 

_Phil you weren’t there, aren’t there._

_You’re the reason._

_You made me don a soldier’s outfit not for dress up and you plunged us into_

**_darkness,_ **

**_cold,_ **

**_insanity_ ** _._

_I was a child, Phil. So was he- in a way._

_And his blood is on your hands._

“Phil?” 

A voice cuts through and Phil startles. His eyes snap to the doe eyed and curious, lanky boy that’d been lurking around of late and -- a sigh. 

“Hey kid, why’re you up?” His voice trembles, though barely noticeable. 

Ranboo shrugs, “Remembering, or trying to at least. ” 

“Funny, so was I.” 

Phil pats the empty space on the bench, snow crusted but warm to his touch. An invitation, complete with unfurled wings to best the night winds battering against their backs. Ranboo’s eyes light up, he scampers to Phil’s side- hesitates before letting his back rest against the black wings. Phil turns his eyes back to the moon, ignores how it glowers at him a malicious grey. He relishes in the comforted silence the young half-enderman offers, how it somehow distracts him from the box of clamouring guilt tucked behind his coat. 

“Can I ask you something, Phil?” Ranboo casts a glance before continuing, “You’re their dad right? I mean-- Tommy and. Well, you know.” 

Phil feels whatever comfort dissipate and is replaced by an uncomfortable bubbling in his throat. “Yeah-- I am.” 

“Then why didn’t you stay in L’manberg? After all-- it's their home right?” 

Phil looks at Ranboo, wide eyed. He thinks of what to say- what should Phil say even? That he didn’t want to live in his son’s symphony? That he didn’t want to close his eyes and see lyrics carved into stone. Much less open his eyes and see the ash slipping from his fingers in that desolate cave, and see flashes of Wilbur’s eyes bulge and his hands slip and his choked ‘I’m sorry’ that was never meant for Phil- and to hear his hollow laugh ripple and bounce across the stone walls-- “It wasn’t meant to be,” Phil finally replies, leaves it at that.(Ranboo’s not clueless, Phil knows he’s been caught up on prior events) He doesn’t think about how he’s heard something like that before. In a more, much more, different time, with Wilbur strangling out the words packaged in an empty gravitas. He doesn’t think about Tommy staring at the blood soaked sword- Chekhov’s gun-, bottom lip trembling, throat croaking out half noises and strangled sounds-- doesn’t think about how he lunges to say sorry, only to find the simplest words stuck. 

The sword clatters to the floor.

“Oh--” Ranboo fumbles with the iron sword, “Sorry. I was playing around with some extra iron and got my hands full.” 

“I-” Phil swallows bile, “I’ll hold it. Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.” 

“God, it's alright. I should get going anyway, you should get some sleep.” Ranboo shoves the sword into its sheath and gives a lopsided grin-- Phil’s heart lurches and for a split second green and red mix into a calm blue hue- 

Phil’s left alone with his thoughts, and the moon. 

.. 

Phil winds up with his wings outstretched along the snow capped bench once again. It's later today- the light in Techno’s house has gone out and the solitary lamp that hangs overhead glows a miserable dull yellow. Ranboo picks at his cake-their cake- that they’d chased chickens halfway to L’manberg for. Phil could almost hear the TNT blowing out his eardrums as the world blanked into a sterile silence amidst the gray ash watering his eyes. He’d swung at a chicken and stalked off, not waiting for Ranboo. 

Sitting facing the moon again, Phil feels beyond his years. He feels tired- he’s witnessed nothing but everything all at once and here he is: in retirement but edging on war, playing father to a not-his-son. 

“Want some?” Ranboo offers some little cake remaining, the still warm pastry nestled in his palm. 

Phil gives it a glance. The cake is remarkably warm and the aroma tugs incessantly at his nose, it makes his stomach stir in want. But then Phil looks at Ranboo, and he sees this tall, lanky man, his slumped bangs and even more slumped shoulders with some sort of perpetually lost look on his monochrome face and he feels his gut churn with nausea. What the hell is Phil doing playing dad to this wayward kid?

What _is_ Phil doing, giving himself a second chance so shamelessly? 

The remorse that didn’t seem to exist before now swells his chest and makes his skin itch against the fabric. Phil refuses the cake and tugs at his robes and coat- his skin feels rotting with hives and he surmounts it to the cold biting at the tips of his fingers. Ranboo shrugs, scarfs down the cake, white cheek dusted a pink glow. Phil looks at Ranboo and thinks of his son. He thinks of Tommy’s exuberant bright eyed smile, thinks of his unwavering resolve and point blank morals backed up with grey actions. And Phil knows he doesn’t deserve this boy with no origin, this second chance at fatherhood. Not when his son is running rampant, heart aching and craving for what spilled from WIlbur’s punctured chest. Not when the world is against him for things they’ve all done before.

Phil laughs: Damning mistakes his ass. The only one who’d made damning mistakes of any kind was him, for losing one son and barely clinging onto the other. 

“Hey Phil,” Ranboo’s voice falls solem, a wistful gleam in his crystal like eyes. “I’ve been thinking and-- I’m grateful. For you. You’ve been really welcoming and--” his voice wavers, “I’ve got no one, ya know?” 

Phil’s breath hitches. He gives a tight smile, his limbs feel stiff and detached from his person. He pulls his arm up and pats Ranboo’s back a little too hard. He’s never known what it's like to have no one. He’s had Techno, he’s had Wilbur and Tommy- even if they’ve never really had him- and now he has this awkward and nervous boy following him like a lost puppy. 

“You’ve got me, don’t you?” 

\-- 

Phil meets Tommy whilst he’s sneaking from behind Techno’s house. Tommy’s chest is completely covered by the sweet golden stained apples bobbing in his arms, his eyes focusing with a trained confidence to the apples, almost as if he’s willing them not to fall. So concentrated, he doesn’t even notice Phil stationed in the snow until they’re closer than they’ve ever been. 

“P- Phil.” Tommy splutters, adjusts himself just as an apple falls into the snow with a muted thud. None of them acknowledge it. Tommy’s eyes dart around wildly, breath quickened, lets out a puff of air-- Phil knows as much to know it's his nervous laugh. 

“I’m not gonna stop you, Tommy” Phil says, almost a whisper. 

Tommy’s eyes narrow, “Why? So you can tell on me later?” 

Phil’s gut twists, “No--” he swallows the lump lodged in his throat, “Because you’re my son.” 

The apples fall, their glow hidden in the thick snow, Tommy stutters some noise. His mouth opens and closes, open and closes, then clamps shut with a click. The wind whips against Phil’s back. Silence starts to doze into a slumber. 

“Y--” Tommy laughs breathlessly, “You’ve got it wrong, old man. _Wilbur_ was your son, I’m-- I’m not.” 

“Tommy-” 

“No.” Tommy’s voice raises, he’s angry now, voice borders on a snarl, “Techno’s your son, Wilbur was your son, but not me-- never me.” 

Phil's voice is both disbelief and pleading, tears ragged and stinging in his throat. "You're my son." 

Tommy takes a sharp inhale and looks at Phil, his eyes are devoid of light. The sight makes Phil's heart plummet.

“I can't be your son,” Tommy swallows, "If you've never been my dad." 

Phil stills, his breath catches in his throat and he can't move. Can't do anything. The weight of his actions, consequences of his bad parenting, crashing down on him relentlessly. Phil’s caught up in the waves as they beat him down and keep his head underwater, there is no air. Tommy exhales- has he been holding this breath this whole time- he turns and strides off, not even bothering to pick up the apples he’s stolen. Phil stands in the snow till the cold seeps in through his boots, till his toes curl in the thick socks and the tips of his fingers are numb. Shakily, he sinks- knees to the cold- fingers tremble as he picks up the snow-crusted apples. It's robotic, his movements. They’re stiff and awkward, collecting the apples at a rhythmic speed. Tommy’s words lay fresh, shame washes over Phil like a chilly, frozen wind battering on his back. He can still remember Tommy staring up at him with starry eyes, fingers grasping onto the wings as he yells at Wilbur about some pet or other. He still has the one letter Tommy sent-- ordered by Wilbur-- when war was a far away future and L’manberg was only budding. He remembers folding it exactly as it was, tucking it in his pocket, cherishing the inked words of ‘I’ll see you soon maybe’ and ‘Wilbur’s a dick as always’. He remembers running his fingers along the creases so thick tears formed at the touch. 

Phil sniffs and wipes the hot tears he didn’t know were falling. He picks up the last apple and rises slowly. Phil feels his entire body go rigid and he has the urge to let himself fall into the thick snow and close his eyes. To be engulfed by the noises whining incessantly in his ears- _Not your son. Not your son.-_ and his depictions of Wilbur and Tommy smiling twisted. 

When Phil sleeps, his mistakes haunt him. 

Today, like most days, the mistakes come in the form of Wilbur. 

“Well,” dream-Wilbur spins a withered rose in his palm-so befitting of his character- “Tommy’s not wrong. When have you ever been there for him?” 

“I can be here for him now-- I know I’ve messed up but--” 

Dream-Wilbur whips around, his black eyes seem to glow, despite being as dark as their surroundings- Phil only now realises it's the same cave where those mesmerizing eyes lost their life. “Shut up,” Dream-Wilbur snips, “I’m not done you insufferable hag.” 

Phil shuts up. 

Dream-Wilbur starts to pace the cave-- he doesn’t even recognise it. The walls are simply walls and they fade in his eyeline, but Phil’s skin itches just standing in the middle of the lyric etched-walls, in the same spot he was before. 

“You think you can just walk into his life? You’ve only ever treated him like dirt- every memory with you is foul. You think he wants to have them all resurface every time he sees your pathetic face?” Dream-Wilbur leans in to Phil, taunts him, mocks him. 

“Besides,” he pulls back and smiles, “You’ve already replaced him haven’t you? You’ve gotten yourself a new kid. So what’s in it for you taking care of that boy with a death wish?” 

“Stop it Wil.” 

“Not to mention he betrayed Technoblade,” Dream-Wilbur feigns surprise, the withered rose resting against his lips, “I don’t think you should keep such _awful_ company, Phil, really I do.” 

“Wilbur.” Phil’s voice is taut, strained. His chest aches, as if someone’s pressing and jabbing into his chest, “Stop it. ” 

Dream-Wilbur stops pacing. He stares at Phil, eyes wide, as if he’s confused of all things. Then his face morphs into euphoria and the ends of his eyes crinkle as he bursts into laughter, “Oh--” he wheezes, “But Phil that’s the best part--See,” the laughter trails off, Wilbur’s face steels, the disinterested and lifeless look returns to his pale skin, “I’m you.” 

Silence, then Dream-Wilbur starts to chuckle, “Of course I’m kidding Phil- Don’t look at me like that- you know I love dramatics. Everything I’ve said holds true, though, I suggest you accept it for what it is. As much as you’d like all this to be opinions from some actually alive independent third person the reality is it's just your brain manifesting your thoughts. How it's made me so self aware I’ve no clue but I suppose when someone like you--” 

“Wil please,” Phil takes Dream-Wilbur’s cold hands and lets out a long defeated sigh, “Can’t we just enjoy this time? I miss you.” 

Dream-Wilbur scowls, “I’m not your real son-- I’m just a figment.” 

“Can’t you pretend? Please-- I miss you so much--” 

“Sorry,” Dream-Wilbur snaps his hands away, doesn’t make eye contact. “I’m not here to play pretend.” 

“Wil--” 

“Shut up.” Dream-Wilbur mutters, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” 

“Why can’t you get it!” Dream-Wilbur’s voice bounces off the cave walls, the cracks start to show, his fingers dig into his hair, tears spill from his vortex-like eyes, “I’m not your son! I’m not Wilbur! And neither is Tommy, or Ranboo-- And-- and if your dream son doesn’t even acknowledge you as his father--” a teary laugh, “Why on earth do you think your real son would?” 

Silence. 

“Why’d you come here Phil?” Dream-Wilbur mutters bitterly, almost spitting his words onto the floor. 

“Well as much as I’d like not to, I still need to sleep--” 

“That’s not what I meant. ”

Dream-Wilbur looks up at Phil, Phil only sees his son staring at him lost and hurt and in need of comfort. Phil wants-- he wants so badly to spread his wings around Wilbur and rub circles on his back, to feel the warmth of his son and to feel his beating heart, his pulsing of life, to forget that day in this cave. But he can’t. Because this isn’t Wilbur, because Wilbur is dead. 

“I can’t control my dreams,” Phil whispers. 

“Why…..” Dream-Wilbur glares at the dream-button on the wall with more spite than Phil's ever seen, “Why can’t you let go?” 

Phil’s nose starts to sting. His cheeks are heated and he doesn’t know why he’s crying. He feels winded, his feet itch to escape. He fights back the urge to scream and yell and slam into the button and let himself relive the explosion spitting in his face. 

Dream-Wilbur stands and faces Phil, tear streaked cheeks, he laughs, “Wilbur and L’manberg, Tommy and the discs, you and your son. It runs in the family- that’s funny- I just thought of it.” 

Dream-Wilbur hums as he starts to stroll the cave, fingers run across the inscriptions, “you must fucking hate this place, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

Dream Wilbur stops. He’s stood in front of the button, his fingers ghost over it. “You wanna go? You have to promise not to come back, though.” 

“How?” 

Dream-Wilbur smiles back at Phil, his hand still hovering over the button. His expression is pained and tensed, like a farewell- or a screw you. Phil’s eyes wilden owlishly, he couldn’t possibly-- couldn’t possibly be so cruel. 

“Just let go.”

 _Click._

\--  
  


Phil sits at his desk and his quill trembles in his rough fingers. He’s alone today-- Ranboo’s out with Techno, and Phil relishes in the solitude. For once, he wants to be alone with his thoughts. He feels the blame, feels Wilbur’s death weighs heavily on his shoulders. Perhaps if Phil was there, then just maybe, he’d be sitting on this bench, his warmth engulfing Phil, his life in full form. Perhaps if he’d been a better father, Tommy would be here now, with the apples Phil let him steal, with at least the comfort of his father as he set off to fix his mistakes. 

It wasn’t so much about him-- Phil hurts for the suffering his children have gone through. He can’t let go of Wilbur’s death, Phil fears if he lets it slip from his fingers then it will rest squarely on his shoulders. If guilt is all he has, how can he let go? Phil presses the tip of his quill to the paper, if at least he couldn’t see Wilbur again, he could pretend his letter would one day reach him. He takes a deep breath of the frosty air, he writes: 

_To my dear son, Wilbur,_

_I’m sorry. I know I’ve made mistakes. I’ve not been the father I should be to you and Tommy. And believe me- I will forever regret not being able to save you. I still remember when you were young, when you and your brother would follow me into the caves holding onto the tips of my wings, you would always end up fighting with Tommy about who got to hold the extra pickaxe. Do you remember? I doubt you will, it's been so long._ _When you left with Tommy for a new nation, I felt obligated to keep my silence and let you go._ ~~_I could not_ ~~ _I did not provide properly for you, and Tommy was always at my mercy. I felt it fitting to step back and play the distant father. I should not have let you go without saying goodbye. I should not have let him leave either, I feel somewhat responsible for all the trouble he has caused._

_I am responsible. He was only a child._

_Looking back, I should have offered you at least some words of caution and advice. Words of comfort. Letting you believe I wanted you to go, it is one of my many mistakes. Because at least then, maybe you would have stayed with me, and then maybe you would still be here._ _I do not regret killing you Wilbur, only for being a part in your overthrown mind. Maybe if I had been better to you and Tommy, maybe if I had stayed longer, maybe if I had called you son more, maybe if I had extended my arm to you sooner-- then maybe, I’d still have two sons._

_Or at the very least, one son. As you may know, Tommy wants nothing to do with me. I can’t blame him. He has suffered an incredible amount, all because I chose to play deadbeat dad. Even if fate wound until we landed back at the cave with your tears to my chest, even if there was no denying your death, at least I could show Tommy I’m here for him._

_I can’t sleep you know? It's hard, when the weight of your mistakes looms like a death threat at the slightest hint of sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep, but I think I’m ready to. You don’t mind, do you? I’m sorry again Wilbur, I’m sorry you have had to deal with such a pathetic father. Tell Tommy I’m sorry too-- more than anything._

_Love,_

_Your dad, Phil.”_

\-- 

“Phil I-” Ranboo flings open the door, grinning widely, stops himself when he’s greeted by an empty cabin.

 _Ah, right, Phil’s out looking for diamonds._ Ranboo clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, just about to close the door when the paper on Phil’s desk ruffles from the wind of the open door and flies over the floor. 

“Oh no-- no no no--” Ranboo jumps, immediately on the floor picking up the paper-- he notices Tommy’s name scribbled on the paper and his curiosity gets the better of him. He slows his movements, pausing to scan the words, face morphing into a worried panic as he flips through the sheets. This was a private thing- private thing right? Why’s Phil writing a letter to a dead man? He seems torn up about Tommy not liking him- Ranboo didn’t even know that- he awkwardly jumps up and hits his head against the ceiling-- 

Ranboo shoves the paper back into a stack and slams the door a little too hard on his way out. 

\-- 

_To: Tommy_

_Hey Tommy, I think you should go to Phil’s cabin. He won’t be back for a while and there's a letter on his desk I think you should read. Don’t kill me if it goes wrong!_

_Sincerely, Ranboo_

\-- 

Tommy trudges in the snow, arms billowed at his side, muttering something about ‘why did I even come’ and ‘dumb fucking Ranboo’. He swings the door to Phil’s cabin open and shrugs off Tubbo’s infuriatingly thin old coat. How Techno’s cabin is so much warmer than Phil’s is a mystery. 

“I guess it's fitting given he’s got a bloody heart of ice,” Tommy mutters scathingly, plodding to the table. He spots the scattered paper on Phil’s desk and gingerly picks it up. He takes a sharp inhale at Wilbur’s name in Phil’s handwriting, and he reads. 

Phil suspects something’s wrong when he passes Ranboo on the way home and the poor boy wears himself out trying to tell Phil something about apples or the other. Ranboo’d went up to him stuttering, barely managing to breath properly, he finally blurted out, “I want apples. Please, no--I’m craving--did you know apples are f-fruits Phil?” 

Then he asks Phil to go apple picking in the _snow._ Phil starts his reply with an “alright just let me put these away” and Ranboo’s all over Phil, words slurred together and hands clenched onto his dirtied robe, wailing about his ‘diet and other food things’. When Phil finally managed to tear himself away from the boy after following him halfway to the forest and back, not collecting a single apple, Ranboo looks flushed red and ready to cry. 

When he goes to his cabin and sees the light on, then he knows something’s up. 

Phil bounds up the steps and swings the door open, axe in hand ready to batter down enemies, imagine his surprise when he sees Tommy staring at him owlishly, the letter crinkled in his hands. 

“Ha-” Tommy laughs breathlessly, “Phil!” 

“What the hell.” Phil says, not even noticing it's _his_ letter until his eyes tear from Tommy’s frightened face to see it in his hands. 

“Now--” Tommy starts, “Now look Phil I--”

“Is that my letter?” Phil hisses, “Is that my fucking letter?”

Tommy glances at the paper and lets go of them immediately, “I-- Its-” 

“You--how did you even know I-- why are you--” 

“Now, now Phil,” Tommy moves forward cautiously, as if approaching a tiger, “I can explain. It's a simple explanation really, a misunderstanding is all it is-- See I was just going about my day, minding my own business, when-- when _Ranboo_ sends me a letter telling me to come over and read this letter and -” 

“And you listened to him?” 

“Well- He said it was really important so I got up and came cause I didn’t want him to feel bad you know?” 

Phil opens his mouth to say something, or chide, but the words are stuck in his throat and he lets out a long sigh instead. 

“Whatever,” he mumbles, “you’ve gone and read it anyway. Look Tommy I don’t wanna fight. If you forget about all this I’m happy to do that.” 

“What the fuck?” Tommy stares at Phil almost gaping, moving to stand tall. It's only when Phil has to look up to meet his eyes does he realise how much of his son’s life he missed.

“What the fuck Phil,” Tommy spits, cheeks flushed red, “you coward.”

“What?” 

“You coward!” Tommy’s shouting now, eyes a poison blue, piercing, they make Phil queasy. “Here I am, literally in your house, a chance for you to fix your bloody mistakes like you lamented _all_ about in your stupid letter, and you say you wanna forget?” 

“It’s not like I fucking wanted you to read it-- I’m not ready-” 

“Not ready?” Tommy scoffs, throat closing on his words, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you weren’t ready. God forbid you try to have an actual conversation with your son before you’ve drafted a speech and warmed your vocals!” 

“Hey!” Phil yells- his ears hurt, they blast a ringing headache and he can barely hear his thoughts. All he can hear is: _be louder than Tommy be louder than Tommy be louder than Tommy_ \- “You don’t know shit,” Phil snarls, _be louder be cruder be angrier be_ \- “How would you know what I’m going through? How could you ever know how to fix my ‘mistakes’, how could you know what my mistakes even are?” 

“Me!” Tommy’s voice is barely audible now, _hit him hit him hit him put him in his place hit him hit him hit him,_ “I’m the mistake! Or at least you seem to think so because all my life you’ve treated me like shit! You didn’t even care for me when I was exiled, when I needed a father, just like how you didn’t care when I was a kid and Wilbur was just your free babysitter. You’re a shit father, and I know all about it because I’m the product of your shit parenting!” 

_Hit him._

Tommy recoils in shock, pain blooming in his abdomen like a flower unfurling its petals. Phil’s leaned forward, the axe shaking and his hands shaking and blood on the metal, drip, drip dripping. 

“Phil what the _fu_ -” 

“Go home.” Phil’s voice is shaky, as if he’d the one that had been sliced, trembling and trembling- _again again again he’s still standing ain’t he? Again Phil, again again._

“Wh-” 

“Hey!”

Tommy’s eyes widen, then narrow coldly. His posture straightens and steels, he hobbles past Phil and slams the door. 

Phil sinks to the floor, his mind runs ragged and he’s shaking-- everything is shaking and everything is blurry and blackening in his vision and he doesn’t understand, his ears are bleeding his eardrums are blown out and Phil wonders in all the madness: Is this what Wilbur felt like? 

\-- 

Phil feels like he’s gone insane. 

Everything has faded into a silence, he can’t seem to hear. Can’t hear the world around him, not Ranboo, not Techno, not anyone. Maybe his ears decided to give way after Tommy’s grating voice hit them, maybe all he needed was to sleep and sleep forever. But Wilbur wouldn’t let him. Phil dreads the day fatigue pins him to the bed, foaming at the mouth and slaps him till he goes. Phil dreads the look dream-Wilbur will cast him-spiteful, disappointed. He dreads the snark and bitter that will spew from his thinned lips, his heart skips at the idea of Wilbur’s mocking tone and the voices echoing through the soundless space, replaying and replaying whispers of louder, louder and hit him, hit him. 

He’s kept away from everyone. Ranboo doesn’t meet his gaze and neither does Techno. Not like he could meet theirs anyway. Tommy’s steely look imprints a deathly grip on his psyche, Tommy’s words hit a hard spot that he can’t shake off. He can’t muster the strength to deal with it, deal with himself. He’s on the floor of his cabin, back aching from bending over as he breaks quill after quill, wearing his hand numb and his inkwell dry as he cancels and rewrites and cancels and rewrites until it's all a mess of black and no words are really visible. He can hardly make out what’s past the ~~Dear Wilbur Dear son~~ at the top of the page, all he knows is that he can’t hear the world and Wilbur won’t hear him unless-- unless he writes it in this exact letter. So many things he has to say to Wilbur, the real Wilbur, the dead one, that he can’t fit in three loose leaves with an already written letter. 

“You look really pathetic.” 

Phil whips his head up. Wilbur stands over him, staring down at him condescendingly. Phil scrambles up--why the hell does he only reach Wilbur’s eyes-- spills over the sparse ink left all over his floor. 

“Wi-Wilbur?” He says, almost a whisper, heartbeat echoing in his ears. Why; how can he hear this right now? 

“Absolutely pathetic.” Wilbur repeats, and his eyes are suspiciously hollow. Lifeless. 

“How-” 

“You can’t reach your dead son,” Wilbur looks sad now, why does he look so sad? He’s supposed to be dead, floating in a tapestry of bliss and eternity. 

(But the tapestry is frayed at the seams and tearing at the center, it seems, because Phil’s not dead, and by the looks of it neither is Wilbur.)

“I did,” Phil’s mouth is uncomfortably dry, “you’re here.” 

Wilbur stares at Phil expressionless, cold. Phil doesn’t look back. The heat burns his skin and blisters seem to pop on his skin at alarming rates. When he runs his hand over his arm it is only cool, smooth skin. 

“Are you happy?” Wilbur asks softly. Phil shakes his head. He keeps his eyes to the floor and refuses to meet Wilbur’s gaze still. 

Wilbur opens his mouth, on the precipice of speech. His jaw slackens and he doesn’t say anything for a long while. Phil wants to hold his son and weep. He wants to stride to Wilbur like he deserved it, as if he were a good father, and hold his son like it's been so long because it has, and have no one flinch like they would. But he cannot even meet his son’s gaze, because he does not deserve it. 

“It was not your fault.” Wilbur says. Phil feels a sting up his nose. He shakes his head. 

“I forgive you.” Wilbur says. Phil whips his head up and watches his son give him a smile. He reaches out- finally, he can apologise, he can bring Wilbur back, he can hold his son in an embrace not feel like the world will crumble- 

Wilbur fades as Phil’s fingers swipe at air. 

The space he is in is nothing. It is empty and soundless and he walks on nothing at all. Wilbur was here, but he is not now. And Phil is not in his cabin. Phil lets himself fall back onto the nothing holding him up and it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt. _It doesn’t hurt._ Phil wants to say. It doesn’t hurt that Tommy will never be his son again. It doesn’t hurt that he has to rebuild his relationship with Ranboo. It doesn’t hurt that Wilbur is dead, it really doesn’t. Phil believes he has been forgiven, at least by Wilbur. Phil believes it doesn’t hurt because it doesn’t. Phil believes it doesn’t hurt because his chest is finally, _finally_ free of the weight sitting so heavily on it. 

In the space of nothing, with his back pressed against nothing and not the floor of his cabin, with his world crumbled around him and his symphony unfinished in itself, Phil lets himself sleep.

This time, it is proper and peaceful. 

**Author's Note:**

> took alot of creative liberty with this one ahaha i wrote this in every lit class since janurary and my grades took a big fat blow lol leave a comment or kudos or smth...ahaha.....pls feed my poor aspiring fanfic writer's ego....all i want is that sweet sweet clout...jk that would be really scary i really wanted to finish this fic properly but idk how to end it and god knows i tried to rewrite the last part like 4 times so bear with the ending please....
> 
> also i couldnt come up with a title so its adapted from thus always to tyrants by the oh hellos MMMM good song also if ur reading this that means ao3 finally let me keep the notes in its full glory and did Not immediately delete it from this universe as it has for the past 40 minutes oh my god also sorry for any weird paragraphing i wrote this on a gdocs and ao3 rich text format took a big shit all over my formatting and im pretty sure i missed some format issues out despite staring at this text for so long the word phil burned has burned its way into my retina oh how will i get an A for math with this -50% eyesight now


End file.
